


No One Will Believe You

by mbeth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:32:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1774291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mbeth/pseuds/mbeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No real plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I've never written anything like this - and I'm totally nervous that I'm going to creep the creeping creep out of some people with the creepyship.

Alayne stumbled from the hall unnoticed, still gripping a chalice of dark wine, and meandered to a cold and drafty corner of the fortress. It was dark and the guards were still watching over the guests as they sipped and pecked away at expensive wines and imported plates. She stood alone, looking at the closed moon door, feeling both dread and comfort while the warm glow of her glass continued to permeate the chill. The cold night air reminded her of Winterfell and, in her solitude, she was able to relish feeling as herself, as Sansa, once more.

The wind howled and flitted across her skirts, barely billowing under to tickle her ankles. She took another sip and closed her eyes as the stained rim of the glass pressed to her lips, folding a crease into their plushness. As Sansa heard soft and slow footsteps, she opened her eyes. She didn’t look to see who had followed her; she had grown to know the quiet patting of his leather boots. A slight smile, made more obvious with drink, crept across her face and she continued to stare at the moon door.

“I was looking for you,” Petyr stopped quite a distance away from her. It seemed he realized that she was thinking of Winterfell, which was only a dream to her now. It is best not to wake a sleepwalker.

“Did it take you very long to find me?” Sansa played along, taking another sip. She turned and took a long and decided step towards him.

“No.” He spoke plainly, choking the answer out with a laugh, as if to say he knew where she would be: always. With that, Petyr stepped toward her on lighter feet.

Sansa watched how his slender shoulders were squared off, but facing slightly off center as he walked. She had noticed this in dogs before, when they try to appear larger. Her sapphire eyes appraised him, from soft soled boots that appeared to be a bit too large, to the glimmering pin at his throat, to the way the hair on his chin was growing back slightly grayer than before – to his eyes. His gray eyes whose color ebbed and flowed with greens according to his temper, like a tide at seashore.

“If you keep looking at me like that, no one will believe you,” he was now so close that his warmth pressed against her, “that you don’t love me.” His mouth grew into a crooked, playful grin.

Sansa stiffened, “Why wouldn’t I love you, Father?” Petyr’s smile dropped though this was the answer he was expecting. She was once again Alayne, pretending as though her bold glances were part of their charade. Her drunkenness had made her brave as she allowed her hand to graze the archway of the moon door, “After all that you’ve done for me.”

While Sansa’s sarcasm shone through her intoxicated snicker, there was some truth to the matter. She felt oddly at peace before the door because of how it reminded her that she was saved and protected here and the cold that was leaking through felt nothing like King’s Landing.

The apples of her cheeks were on fire as she took another very large gulp of her wine and laughed. She was amused by the farce of father and daughter, particularly when no one was around save the two of them. The wine sloshed in the glass as she brought it back down from her lips, a drop flicking onto her hand.

Petyr seized the glass from her immediately and turned the chalice to place his lips on the oily spot where her lips had just been. Something twisted in her stomach when she thought of how their lips had just touched through the wine. He guzzled back the remainder of the liquid, making a slightly unpleasant expression as he did. The light reflecting from the glass was cast into his eyes, turning them green again.

Sansa appeared puzzled as she mouthed the droplets away on her hands, her lips parted, her eyes meeting his.

“There appears to be no more left to spill.” He ran his thumb across one corner of his hard mouth, his tongue flickering at the other. If a single bead of wine had stained his face, he would no longer be the immaculate image of the Protector of the Vale.

“You didn’t want me to drink that,” the tone was accusing but still more lighthearted than intended. Sansa felt as though he took a final freedom from her in that moment; controlling how much suffering she was allowed to ignore and how much joy she was allowed to feel. The anger rose in her hands, causing her to shake. She watched his brows furrow irreverently and a grin stretch across his face. The candle light caught his sharp and stubbled jaw and she felt and unyielding desire to strike him there in the corner of his mouth.

She lifted her hand and he caught her by the wrist, letting the chalice clatter to the stone at his feet. His hands were soft and delicate like an academic’s hands would be. He had no scars, no bruised knuckles, no calluses – except for the base of where he wore his rings. Though his nail beds were long and elegant, he kept his nails short.

“You were spilling very good wine,” he whispered onto her cheek, though it came out more like a growl, “I didn’t want it to go to waste.”  
Sansa pulled away sharply. “It wouldn’t have. I was going to drink it.”

His eyes were a deep green that matched the collar of his doublet. He shifted his weight, tongued the back of his front teeth, and smirked with an open mouth. The point of his eye tooth grazed his bottom lip as he bit down slightly.

“I have a private collection, if you would be interested.” Petyr’s graying brow arched in invitation. “It’s all much sweeter.”  
Sansa nodded her head languidly, her browned curls bouncing at her shoulders. “I would like that.”


	2. Chapter 2

He placed his elegant hand at the small of her back, pulling her dress tighter to her shapely figure. They walked through the halls in silence, even hushing their steps, until they came to the dark door of his chambers.

“Just through here,” he mumbled, although his mumbling was still over enunciated. Sansa watched as Petyr pressed his small frame into the door, shifting its position and letting the light from his chambers leak out into the hall.

The light emanated from a freshly lit fire. It casted shaped shadows as it swarmed around a high-backed leather chair that sat discernibly and powerfully in the room. Petyr walked to a chest at the bedside, reached inside, and pulled out a carafe and two glasses. Sansa still stood timidly in the threshold.

As Petyr poured one glass, he shut the chest and sat atop it, setting the other glass beside him. “I thought you wanted to drink wine.” He looked up at her through vibrant green eyes and dancing shadows.

“Yes,” she smiled nervously. Sansa took long strides to reach the glass of wine. As she stretched her hand out for the stem, Petyr pulled it away and patted on the chest next to him. His smile reached across his face playfully. His smile went further than his eyes and was even seen in his ears as the arched back.

Sansa obliged and took a substantial amount of the wine in her mouth. She held the liquid in her mouth before swallowing it sharply. “It’s lovely,” she inhaled, “thank you.”

Petyr nodded into his own glass, savoring a sip. His green eyes stared at her hungrily and she stared in every direction but his. He watched her ivory throat shiver as she continued to drink, he watched her cheekbones glow in the fire, he watched her hair – now dark – as it reminded him that she was pretending to be his daughter.  
Sansa startled as she felt the back of Petyr’s fingers brush against her jawline.

“Lord Baelish,” she whimpered as she turned to him.

He parted his lips, almost moving them to correct her, but instead he deeply inhaled and pulled her sleeve down off her shoulder. He pulled it so taught that the top two buttons down the front of her gown came undone.

Sansa simply watched him, lips parted, cobalt eyes searching. Her breath shortened and her pulse quickened, it was somewhere between fear and curiosity.

“Everything has a price,” he breathed. As he pressed her ear with his mouth, she stilled. At times her breath was louder and less controlled; she gasped, but still didn't take her eyes off the fireplace.

Petyr stopped, leaned back, and looked at Sansa. “Have I made a miscalculation?” He smiled, masking his agitation.

“Yes,” she put her wine down and looked fiercely apologetic, “I – no. I’m not certain.” Her strong shoulders folded in on themselves as she fidgeted in her seat. Petyr pursed his lips and rubbed the bridge of his very straight and narrow nose with his forefinger and thumb. His free hand combed through his hair nonchalantly with a heavy sigh. Sansa noticed how pretty he was lit by the fire and something stirred inside her. It was something she had never felt before; admiration mixed with a twinge of pity. Sansa wondered if this is the feeling her mother bore towards him when they were young. She stood in front of him, her back to the light, drawing his attentions.

“Petyr," she whispered as her fingers began working on the remaining buttons of her gown.

Instead of assisting her with her dress, he watched her as his slender fingers began unbuttoning the collar of his doublet, until a sliver of a pink, raised scar appeared. Sansa focused at his exposed collarbone. What she could see of the scar was angry and hideous. She had never seen anything like it; it excited her.

Petyr stopped undressing and held his hand over the mark. “Does it repulse you? Ask me what it’s from.” It was spoken more to himself as an apology for the appearance of his chest as he was still fixated on Sansa’s milky flesh.

It was a feeling of pity again that she felt and anticipation. She had completely unbuttoned her over gown, and threw it off from around her in one swift and chilling move. Her large, dark nipples were visible through her smallclothes. There was a single bow, tied at her chest, which kept her nakedness from him.


	3. Chapter 3

Petyr leapt up and, while wrapping his hands in her hair to caress the curve of her skull, he pressed his body against hers. She could feel his arousal against her hips and her blood rushed to where their bodies met. His lips grazed against hers, but they didn’t kiss. Sansa reached up to the ribbon that kept her skin bound away from him and he stopped her.

His eyes, now a pale gray, narrowed slightly as he took the bow in his hands. Petyr’s gaze was kind, as it was with Sansa from time to time, and tentative, as it rarely was. His pause gave her a moment to reconsider, but her throbbing pulse at the apex of her thighs continued.

Sansa parted her lips further and nodded her head towards Petyr. The tie began unraveling as he pulled one length of the ribbon out between them. The sheer, white cloth slid down her body and pooled around her feet like a puddle of muslin.

Sansa’s breasts were small and round. Her nipples had receded in the cold, causing her white skin to pucker around them. Her skin was flawless, completely untarnished, and clean. Every inch of her body was ivory, except for a small patch of reddish hair that no longer matched her chestnut locks.

Petyr ran his hand down the side of body, starting at her pointed shoulder and down to her hipbone that had widened since he met her. He took her slender waist into his hands, the rings on his fingers felt colder than the air and his hands could almost hold all her. He thumbed the bottom of her ribs and pulled at her skin with a craving.

“Take this off,” Sansa wrapped her fingers around Petyr’s collar, and stroked the scar with the back of her knuckles. She watched his reluctance and replied, “It doesn’t frighten me.” 

He didn’t move his hands from her figure so she began unfastening his doublet herself. With every button undone, more scar showed. It kept growing longer down the length of his torso, as if she was undoing his skin as well.

He sheepishly let his shirt hang open from his shoulders as Sansa inspected his form. His torso had a thin dusting of dark hair on the muscles of his chest and a thin strip down the middle of him to his navel. His scar bisected the hair growth wherever they met and left that patch of skin clean like a boy’s.

In thinness, Petyr and Sansa were matched. Both had slight musculature just under their skin and small shoulders. They were almost of equal height as well, Sansa beating Petyr by a hair. She lifted his clothing from his shoulders and dropped them to the floor behind him. Stepping out of her gown, she made her way to the bedside.

Petyr reached down and lifted his doublet, placed it folded onto the chest, and sat beside her. As he sat, the skin above his trousers folded. His skin was so unlike a young man. It looked softer, and thinner like parchment, but still stronger. It hung on him like leather, and was pulled tight at his scar.

Sansa climbed onto him, flushed and naked legs straddling his. Her hands worked at the lacing of his trousers, brushing against his stiffness each time she unlaced an eyelet. He moaned into the soft skin at her neck and the hair on his face scratched against her. As she unbound his manhood, he reached up and palmed her breast, drawing a whimper from her lips. His body was warm as she worked her hands down his hips and pressed her breasts to his shoulders. 

“Like this,” he whispered. Petyr took her hand in his and stoked his length, finding a slow rhythm. He bucked against her as she held him tightly in her fist. He held onto her arm, keeping her hand in its place, and met her nipples with his mouth. The hair above his lip tickled against her sensitive skin.

His tongue swirled around the pink buds on her chest. He grazed their ends with his teeth and Sansa inhaled sharply. Petyr quickly placed his hands under her, lifted her up, and tossed her to her back on the bed next to him. Her small breasts bounced as she hit the down feathers. Petyr spun to her and with one hand pet her hair while the other slid between her legs. His fingers curled into her wetness and she gasped. Her folds were hot and pink like a burning iron. Petyr ran his hand down her hair and onto her neck, holding tightly with his thumb on her jawline as he continued to play with her.

Sansa’s moans grew louder until he hushed her, holding his fingers over her lips. She licked at them, taking his thumb into her mouth and sucking gently. Petyr closed his eyes as he imagined how she would feel around his cock. Almost instinctually, Sansa opened her legs for his hand as he pressed at her opening. She panted, her chest rising and falling quickly enough to move him. He slid a finger inside of her and she mewed.

She positioned him between her legs, running her hands along his muscular sides.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa raised her hips against his and writhed in circles, pushing into his throbbing groin. Holding her hips up with one hand under the small of her back, Petyr pushed down the front of his trousers and, after licking his palm, wrapped it around the thickness of his cock.

Her whimpers became breathy pleas as he edged his hardness closer and closer to the warmth between her legs. He pressed against her with his tip and rubbed it up and down along her wet lips until finally immersing himself inside of her.

They both inhaled sharply, a low moan escaping Petyr’s lips as he pressed his face into the nape of Sansa’s neck.

“You feel so good,” biting her bottom lip, Sansa mumbled. She thrust upward into him, holding the roundness of his shoulders as she pulled him closer. Her hot breath caught the curves of his ear and he melted into the feeling. She tongued where his earlobe and his neck met and he clawed at her hip ravenously, thrusting deeper into her. She let out a high and quiet cry; it was somewhere between pain and pleasure and was shaken from her lips. 

Petyr felt her tighten around him as he quickened their rhythm. Sansa gyrated her hips circularly so every inch of her could feel every inch of him; it felt like everything at once. Sweat droplets had caught in her hairline, glistening like snow, until Petyr rubbed the side of his face against hers, his own graying temples catching her dew.

Sansa noticed goose bumps appearing on his shoulders and the back of his arms while she scratched at his skin. Petyr groaned into the bed beneath her and pressed firmly into her body. His breathing slowed and his movements halted.

They both panted, laying there for a moment until he pulled away. As he did, Sansa’s body shuddered around his cock. He exhaled quickly and incredulously and smiled.

Petyr wiped away the sweat that clung to his facial hair, “That wasn’t your first time, was it?” He was still catching his breath.

Sansa gave a mischievous smile, mimicking the ones she had seen him wear so often, and shook her head. “No, Lord Baelish.” She found the formality of that name exhilarating, especially with their current state. “I didn’t think I had to lie to you to lie with you. I could have pretended it was, though. I’ve practiced. I’m quite good.” 

Her smile broadened. “Would you like to hear?”

“Very much so,” his voice was raspy and quiet.

Sansa leaned up, positioning herself on her knees in front of him, both still on the bed. Petyr moved up to sit while fastening his trousers.

She rocked her hips back and forth against the duvet and looked directly into his eyes. A small moan escaped her lips as she pretended to mount a man. She rolled her thin neck from shoulder to shoulder, tossing her hair gently. She bit her lip and whimpered again, never taking her cobalt eyes from his.

“I have to make it sound like it hurts,” she panted and whined while her hands explored her body, tickling a nipple and cupping her breasts.

As she squealed, Petyr’s hand moved to his crotch and he rubbed there casually.

“But it feels good too,” her brows furrowed in a pained expression, “because it’s you who’s hurting me.”

Petyr fell apart at how she exaggerated the phrasing of you. He felt as though every time she’s alone, every time she’s doing this, she thinks of him.

“It builds to pleasure after that,” she hums now in the back of her throat, in a lower pitch, “I have to make you forget that you hurt me.” Her moans grew louder and she finally dropped his gaze.

He scurried to her side and placed his hand on the mound of auburn hair. Sansa gasped, stopping her charade. Petyr’s fingers moved downward into the folds of her skin. She continued to move her hips, but her sounds were no longer faked as he slid two finders into her. She rolled her face into his, brushing against him like a cat. His thumb circled above his fingers and she let out a loud breath.

“They didn’t know what they were doing though,” he whispered into her ear, brashly. “I do.”

Sansa nodded as he continued manipulating her flesh. Every muscle on her body began tightening, from her toes to the muscles around his fingers. She mumbled his name between breaths, “Petyr.” It almost lost its first syllable to her excitement. Her body spasmed as his fingers kept working, faster and stronger, until she collapsed into him.

She caught her breath in time to see him mouth his hand clean; suckling his fingers individually, his lips puckering out as he withdrew them.  
She smiled slightly with astonishment, she had never even heard of something so deviant; “You’re disgusting.”

“I’ve heard that before,” he mumbled, grabbing his shirt up to place it around his shoulders. “Oh, and by the way, you’re not that good at pretending. You should practice with a real man,” he turned away from her as he began buttoning over his scar, “one that wouldn’t give away your secrets, maybe.” Petyr looked back at her over his shoulder and smiled.

Sansa felt pity again for him as he hid his wound, even after she had seen him so exposed though he didn’t ever fully undress. But perhaps all love is, is a mixture of lust and pity, she mused.

“With talk like that, no one will believe you, you know.” Sansa relished in her realization, “No one will believe that you don’t love me.”

“No one ever has,” Petyr walked to her, and kissed her on the top of her head.


End file.
